


Don't Hold Me Too High

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining Sam, Truth Serum, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3928951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leave it to a goddamn Winchester to try and shoulder someone else's wrongs.<br/>(Or the one where Sam is in love with his brother and Dean is... not.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Hold Me Too High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frozen_delight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/gifts).



They put Stillwater behind them faster than they've ever lit out of any town, save the ones where law enforcement or demons were riding close on their tail. They don't even bother checking out of their ugly-as-shit motel; those credit cards are maxed out anyway, and Sam's got no intention of protesting Dean's priorities.

Distance won't fix anything. It won't pull the truth back and hide it away again—there's no calling do-over on a confession like this—but it's easier to put the panic aside, compartmentalize it in the back of his mind, when all Sam has to look at is moving highway. He's in the passenger seat, because no way was Dean going to let him drive, but that's fine. Sam would just as soon pretend he's not in this car at all.

Who ever fucking heard of _truth venom_ anyway. That definitely wasn't a warning on the tin when he and Dean started looking into rumors of a cockatrice in Oklahoma.

Neither of them speaks a word into the pre-dawn darkness while they drive, or into the easing gray that hints at dawn not long after. Sunrise breaks and crests just as the Impala crosses the border into Kansas. Sam keeps right on staring out the passenger side window despite the sunlight glaring directly into his face. There's nothing calming about the violent pinks and oranges that creep across the sky, but it's still better than acknowledging his brother while Sam's own insides are still in such a turmoil. He feels sick to his stomach, and suddenly glad for the fact that he hasn't eaten in hours.

Dean knows. 

Fuck. Dean _knows_. Ten years of keeping this one unforgivable secret under wraps, and for what? The delay earned Sam nothing. It didn't soften the blow. If anything it made Dean's shock all the worse at learning just how wrong Sam is bent. Sam has seen a lot of awful expressions on his brother's face. He's seen Dean hurt, angry, guilty, wounded, betrayed. He's seen his brother die. And somehow, in all those expressions, he's never seen anything at all like the gutted look Dean gave him when Sam admitted to feelings no brother should ever have.

Even on a full tank of gas they can't drive forever. The tollway ends just before Emporia, and Sam doesn't protest when Dean angles for an exit ramp and a cluster of gas stations. When the Impala stops beside a fuel pump, Sam hops out before Dean can say anything to him. He's still too on-edge for civil conversation; he's too ashamed to look Dean in the eye.

The bathrooms are around the back of the building, cramped but more or less clean. Sam splashes water on his face before emerging back into the warm morning. 

The Impala is empty when he rounds the building. Dean must have gone inside to pay. After the ruckus they kicked up in Stillwater and the speed of their departure, better to stick to cash for at least a few stops, even if they are changing over to new credit cards. Sam climbs back into the passenger seat and slams the door harder than necessary behind him. At least his heartbeat has calmed a little in his chest. He can breathe again. Maybe if Sam can't get a do-over, Dean will at least keep his mouth shut.

The driver's door creaks, and Sam startles from his thoughts as Dean slips behind the wheel. Sam doesn't mean to look at his brother—but surprise draws his attention when Dean throws a chilled bottle of water across the car and into Sam's lap. The bottle is slick with condensation and cold in Sam's hand, and he finds himself staring hard at Dean's blank profile. 

"Drink that," Dean orders without meeting Sam's eyes directly. He's already fumbling the keys into the ignition, starting the car with a familiar rumble of engine. "All of it. You look like shit. That venom knocked you down hard, you need to hydrate."

Sam stares at Dean's profile, but his brother is focused entirely on the road the Impala maneuvers out of the lot and back onto the busy street. 

Eventually, not daring to break the stubborn silence already settling like a lead weight between them, Sam twists off the plastic cap and obeys. He drains the bottle in a single, steady go, and the cold water is a relief on his dry throat. Some of the shaking in his stomach settles, either from the much needed water or simply thanks to the moment's distraction provided by drinking it. He still aches somewhere sharp and sullen in his chest, all too aware of the conflicting mix of guilt and rejected hurt, but at least the worst of his nausea has passed. His stomach is no longer wrapping itself in violent knots.

Sam turns his gaze straight ahead and lets the quiet stretch across his skin.

As the morning disappears and the afternoon creeps up, Sam expects his brother to start looking for a motel along the road. Somewhere they can crash, eat, get a little distance between them. Somewhere with a bar so Dean can leave Sam behind and go get a drink without having to share the same air as his fucked up brother.

Instead, just as Sam's stomach is starting to remember that they've missed both breakfast _and_ lunch, Dean follows a blue Rest Area sign off of the highway. The road winds uncertainly towards a squat little building. The lot is surrounded by a startling amount of greenery, including tall trees that block any clear view of the highway. There are only two cars in the entire lot, both parked near the small building with its recycling bins and vending machines. 

Dean angles the Impala towards the very farthest parking stall from the building, a spot nestled in heavy shade and as private as they're likely to get. Sam's heart, nearly calm a moment ago, kicks up in protest. He was so sure Dean would follow his usual habits and refuse to talk about this. Sam was banking on Dean's customary reticence. 

But Dean is already killing the engine, leaving the car quiet and still. Sam swallows past a sudden tightness in his throat. His hands clench into fists on his lap.

He's not looking at Dean, but he can hear plain as day the reluctance in his brother's voice when Dean says, "Got a feeling we need to talk about this."

Sam swallows again—when did his throat get so dry?—and shakes his head. "There's nothing to talk about."

"You're a terrible liar, Sammy." Dean's voice is surprisingly gentle. There's something too close to pity in the way he says Sam's name. The sound of it prickles along Sam's skin and heats his face with fresh shame. He glares straight ahead through the windshield and tries to ignore the weight of Dean's stare.

"What do you want me to say?" Sam asks. His own voice has gone thick with guilt and a familiar rush of all the wrong feelings. He doesn't dare look at Dean. His brother's pretty face is a distraction at the best of times; today the sight will only tear Sam apart. 

In Sam's peripheral vision Dean shrugs. The gesture is obviously meant to look careless, but comes across stiff and awkward. "I just want to know you're okay," Dean says.

Sam's laugh is a grating, painful sound that makes Dean flinch. There's the real threat of hysterics twisting in Sam's chest, and he quiets himself with difficulty. His feelings are all sharp edges and sandpaper behind his ribs, and it takes him a long time to collect coherent words.

"Of course I'm not okay," Sam says, quiet and painful. "I'm in love with my own fucking brother. Don't get me wrong, I'm used to it, but this... You weren't ever supposed to _know_ , man." 

Sam _is_ used to it, is the problem. He's been in love with Dean almost as long as he can remember. He's had his brother on a pedestal since they were just kids, and he honestly doesn't know when simple hero worship took a turn towards something a whole lot more complicated. It happened so gradually he couldn't pin down a particular moment if he tried. Even now he's not entirely sure if it happened before Stanford or if it's something he worked out during those painful years apart. 

The silence stretching across the Impala now is heavy and uncomfortable, and Sam bites his tongue to keep from trying to explain himself. No good can come of giving Dean more information. They're already fucked, but that doesn't mean Sam can't still make everything worse.

Eventually Dean speaks. He sounds reluctant and _wrong_ , but there's steel running beneath the hint of apology when he says, "Sam, you know I can't... You know I don't feel that way, right? I mean, I'd do anything for you, but not this." 

Ice slicks along Sam's skin at the very idea, and his neck twinges as he turns to gape at Dean. His brother looks wrecked, and Sam's voice is all rough gravel when he says, "Jesus Christ, Dean, of course I know that." Goddamn, it stings—it fucking _hurts_ —that Dean thinks little enough of him to assume Sam expects otherwise. Sam has proven himself a monster more than once in the past few years, but what Dean's words are suggesting is worse by far. Sam may be selfish, but he's not that much of a dick.

He takes a moment, inhales as slowly as he can in an effort to center himself. 

When he trusts his voice to come out evenly, Sam says, "I may be fucked up, but I never expected anything from you." He knows his brother too well to ever have harbored hope. If Dean were interested in Sam—if he were bent askew in any of the same ways—surely Sam would have caught his brother looking at least once. The fact that he's never even had cause to question tells him that Dean's wires aren't crossed like his. 

Despite evidence to the contrary, Sam's not a complete idiot.

Eventually—awkwardly—Dean breaks from Sam's appalled stare and faces forward. He hasn't taken his hands off the steering wheel once through this wretched conversation, and Dean's knuckles are white from the tight grip he still holds around hard leather.

There's hesitation in the rigid line of Dean's shoulders, and for a moment Sam thinks his brother intends to retreat. Sam wouldn't blame him for wanting out of this car and away from this conversation, never mind that Dean's the one who started it.

 _No_ , Sam amends in the privacy of his own mind. Dean _didn't_ start this. Sam started this when he got himself dosed with venom and blurted his secret. Sam started it when he couldn't find a way to take the words back.

Sam started this when he fell in love with his own brother. How can he fault Dean for needing to see it through, one way or another?

Finally Dean says, "I'm sorry, Sammy. I don't know how to make this right."

"No." Anger unlocks Sam's throat and frees the words from where they've been choking him. "No way, man. You don't get to apologize to me."

Dean is looking at him again, all wide eyes and incredulity. Leave it to a goddamn Winchester to try and shoulder someone else's wrongs. Sam can predict all of the things his brother is about to say, all the fool-hardy arguments Dean might think to try, and goddamn but Sam does _not_ want to hear them.

"No," he repeats darkly before Dean can speak a word. "You didn't set me on this path. You didn't do anything to fuck me up. You sure as hell haven't been leading me on. So don't you dare try and argue my feelings are somehow your fault."

Dean's mouth snaps shut and his eyes flash even wider.

Sam's voice softens with ill-concealed emotion when he offers, "I could clear out for a while. Give you a chance to wrap your head around all this and maybe forget about it a little." He doesn't want to go. The thought of leaving Dean again, after everything they've come through together, burns like an angry ember behind Sam's ribs, and he can barely breathe around the force of denial in his chest.

He doesn't want to go; but he will if that's what Dean needs.

"You go _anywhere_ and I'll just track your sorry ass down," Dean retorts, staring Sam down with anger in his eyes.

"I wouldn't _stay_ gone," Sam protests helplessly. "A little distance might do us some good." He can't believe he's arguing the point. He'd sooner claw his own heart from his chest than walk away from Dean.

But he sure as hell can't offer up any other viable alternatives, any other roads for them to take. If he had it in him to move on and let this disastrous infatuation go, he'd have done it a hundred times over by now. Sam's feelings aren't going to change, and he won't make Dean any promises he can't keep.

Dean only shakes his head, stubbornness in the gesture and determination in the tight line of his jaw.

"No," Dean says in a voice Sam knows better than to argue with. "Fuck that. We're a team. We're _family_. We stick together no matter what."

"Dean," Sam interjects weakly.

" _No_ ," Dean repeats. "We're not splitting up. Not after everything we've been through. You just... Keep your hands to yourself, and I'll get my head on straight, and it'll be like this never happened."

It won't be, though. And judging by the doubt in Dean's eyes, Sam's not the only one who knows it. But Dean's proposal is still a damn sight better than Sam's bluff about time apart. Besides, he'd be a fool to keep arguing when Dean's face is set in that determined scowl.

Sam's voice sounds wrong and rough with gratitude when he finally answers, "Okay."


End file.
